


Blintz

by yeaka



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Panto only wants one thing at the party: the one thing he can’t have.





	Blintz

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set before their love affair.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The castle is full of splendor, confetti on the floor and streamers strung about the ceiling, tables lined with toffees and punch and all sorts of cakes, the icing on the tallest one even dyed pink in honour of the occasion. They’re _trying_ to keep up their peaceful airs. There’s no telling how long it will last. But Panto tries to enjoy himself and devours the sugary treats like that’ll save the evening. 

In truth, the lively festivities are something of a torture. The purposely displayed riches only serve to remind Panto how very much the Dengdamors have, and how very little the Trosts, even a prince among them, could offer in comparison. And all of the beauty around them only serves to highlight the Dengdamors’ greatest gem: their own prince, _Silas_ , who moves about the party like a living star, casting light over everything he touches. The nobles clustered about him simper and laugh, and when he tastes the desserts scattering the tables, the chefs all but swoon. He draws Panto’s gaze, like he always does, but it’s worse here, where everyone else is watching, and the sugar-rush in Panto’s brain is making him long for _other_ sweet delights.

He tries to drown his desires in punch, but that does very little good. It just makes the pounding music rattle louder in his head. When Litzibitz comes to stand next to him by the red-purple punch bowl, she’s still swaying to the beat. At least, Panto notes, most of them are having fun. 

His father, sullenly seated in the corner, is ruining the mood, but that’s hardly new. Panto takes solace in Litzibitz’s smile, and the way she toasts to him and giggles. She looks like she’s had too much sugar and too many dances, but she isn’t small anymore, and he knows all the women she’s danced with. He always keeps one protective eye out anyway, even though he’s taught her well in the art of the scissor-sword.

She opens her mouth, but he never learns what she has to say—she looks suddenly aside instead, and Panto understands why. Silas is winding through the mess of bodies on the dance floor, carefully sidestepping around each swinging couple. When his gaze falls over Panto, he pauses, eyes wide and full of some bristling emotion that makes Panto shiver beneath his skin. He can guess who Silas is coming to dance with, and he couldn’t bear that. 

He steps forward before that can happen. He knows he shouldn’t. It would bring more peace to their world if Silas and Litzibitz were to dance and laugh and maybe even _more_ , and Panto wants them both to be happy, _but he couldn’t bear it._ It’s the only time he’s ever shunted his sister, but that guilt doesn’t keep him from looping a tentative arm around Silas’ waist and leaning in to ask over the music, “Will you dance with me?”

Silas’ breath hitches. Panto can see his heartbeat spiking, can feel the way he tenses up, dark eyes for Panto alone, like the rest of the room is fading right out of their world. Panto swallows and pushes to explain, grappling for an excuse, “Forgive me, I’ve had too much punch...”

“As have I,” Silas quickly agrees. Before Panto can pull away again, Silas has reached out and taken hold of Panto’s hand. On the field, they both wear gloves more often than not, but here, in the formal setting, it’s just bare skin on skin. Silas’ thick fingers wrap over his palm, and Panto shivers in raw _hunger_ , body burning. He can feel the heat off Silas’ smaller form, smell the intoxicating, earthy tang of Silas’ Dengdamor cologne, and see every black hair on Silas’ chiseled jaw. The more he looks at Silas, the more he _wants_ , but he can’t look away. He steps them subtly towards the dancers, and the music blazes around them.

Silas tells him through it, “My mother said to dance with the Trosts... I suppose she didn’t specify which one.” And his gorgeous lips twitch up at the ends, gracing Panto with a dazzling smile. His eyes are crinkled with it—Panto can’t see a single stitch of displeasure in them, even though this dance is blasphemy. If anything, they’re rich and ripe with the same palpable emotion that Panto always feels when Silas is in his sights. It makes him wonder if it’s at all possible that Silas could ever want him too. 

Panto guides the dance, but Silas knows just as surely where to step. They hold one another carefully, as though ready to pull away at any moment, but enough to rope them together, to keep them bound. Even from just that light ghost of a touch, Panto can tell just how perfectly Silas fits into his arms. He thinks if they had a chance to truly _be together_ , they’d work like they were carved from the same stone. Their families would never approve, of course. He knows his father’s probably glaring at him in that very moment. But Silas’ eyes hold him captive, and Panto doesn’t want to let go.

The song ends. Their feet still, and for a brief moment, Panto considers throwing it all away—leaning in to press his lips against the only person he’s ever wanted—but then their fairy tale ends.

Wygar taps on Silas’ shoulder, and it startles them both out of the reverie. Panto’s usually more aware of his surroundings, harder to sneak up on, but Silas is his greatest weakness. 

Wygar growls, “Your mother wants to speak with you.” There’s little doubt about what. Panto experiences a pang of guilt for subjecting Silas to that, but Silas doesn’t look like he has any regrets.

He lets himself be pulled from Panto’s arms, though he looks back often. When he’s fully out of sight, swallowed utterly up in the crowd, Panto turns bitterly away. 

He drowns his sorrows in a flossy yellow croquembouche, heart still busily aflutter.


End file.
